


all my scars have got a tune

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Musicians!AU [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Sex, Clint's Questionable Tattoo Choices, Established Relationship, Hotel Sex, Lazy Sex, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleepy Sex, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Bucky's a little late for their post-show hangout.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Musicians!AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1427029
Comments: 54
Kudos: 314





	all my scars have got a tune

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back! I have another in this series ready to go for next week, too. I can't believe it's so popular.  
> Set after the first two. I promise to try and keep them in order now. (Hint: I'm lying.)

“Sorry I’m late,” a voice murmurs into the back of his neck and Clint blinks his eyes open slowly.

The lamplight casts an orange glow over the hotel room, and from where Clint’s laying on his side he can only see the wall and the disturbing photograph of a nun hanging on said wall. It feels less worrying now that he’s got a body pressing up against his back, skin-warm leather and rough denim. Bucky’s arm curls around his bare hip and it’s so good that Clint would be happy to stay this way forever.

“You probably shouldn’t leave your keycard outside the door for me, though,” Bucky says. “Kind of unsafe, especially for a celebrity.”

“’m fine. No one wants to hang out with me except you,” Clint answers drowsily, gets a kiss behind his hearing aids for that one. “Anyway, I was stayin’ awake. For you.”

“You did a great job at that, too,” Bucky replies dryly. Clint’s too warm and buzzing with contentment to bother with arguing about it. He’d been planning to wait up for Bucky, but there’d been a show earlier in the day and he’s not as young as he used to be. Drifting off was kind of inevitable.

Still, he’s enjoying the hand rubbing over his hipbone. He’s kind of _into_ the cold pressure of the metal touching him, if he’s honest with himself. It moves up from bare skin to the edge of his vest, traces along the stripe of skin where the leather is unzipped.

It’s all he’s wearing and he catches Bucky’s faint exhale, smirks a little smugly into the pillow. “Know you like the stage look,” is what he supplies Bucky with. He’s still got the makeup on his face too, although the eyeliner’s probably smudged and messy from where he’s been rubbing his face against the pillow.

“I like _you_ ,” Bucky corrects quietly.

Clint’s whole plan here had been just to seduce Bucky - which is funny because he’s fairly sure he managed to do that already, _somehow_ , while he was onstage. It’s a heady thought. But he knows Bucky’s into the leather and mesh and glitter that comes along with the Hawkeye trademark, so he’s happy to make an effort.

He hadn’t put on the leather stage pants, though. Clint hates those, as much as he loves how hot he feels in them. He’s pretty sure that they hate him, too. It’s a relationship based on a necessary but pure kind of disdain. He’s thinking Bucky might appreciate the whole no-pants situation anyway, judging by the way his fingers slip back down to trace along the skin of his thigh.

“What do these mean?”

“Hmm?” A second later he remembers the scrawling text that’s inscribed where Bucky’s running his fingers over. “What, you don’t know My Chemical Romance? Every kid from twelve to twenty is preparing to snipe you through the window right now.”

Bucky’s fingers pause in their movements. Clint huffs out an amused little breath and squirms back against him, quietly revels in the scrape of denim against his skin. Bucky makes a pretty nice noise when he does it too. He’d been planning - there’d been ideas and seductive lines and toys that he can’t quite remember where he left - but hey, this works too.

He’s kind of glad Bucky can’t see his smile because it feels distinctly smug when he turns his face into the pillow. He’s not exactly pulling off the rockstar aesthetic here, but judging from the bulge against his ass, there’s no complaints.

Maybe being half-asleep was a fine strategy after all.

“No use looking for meaning in those,” Clint mumbles as Bucky’s fingers drift to where he knows the tiny bell pepper and cheese tattoo is inked below the lyrics.

“I like your weird tattoos too,” Bucky reasons quietly. “I like all of you.”

Usually an explanation of his tattoos makes everyone come to the conclusion that Clint’s kind of impulsive and dumb, and that no one else in the industry would get the ingredients to their favourite kind of pizza on their body. Clint chooses to think he's fun and entertaining instead.

Clint’s in that weird space between awake and asleep where everything feels slow and time’s gone thick and hazy, but he still feels the low hum of pleasure when fingers brush up against his dick. Bucky’s hips are still pushed up tight to his skin and Clint squirms back against it, inhales sharp when metal fingers dig into his thigh.

Well, no reason to deviate from his original plan, really.

“You should - you should fuck me,” Clint says. Pleads, more like, although his voice comes out breathy and soft on the edges.

“You’re not even awake,” Bucky answers softly. Despite his argument, he hasn’t stopped with the slow, easy handjob and Clint sighs happily. He doesn’t repeat his request, just reaches behind him and tugs gently at the strands of hair he catches. Bucky’s breath hitches audibly and his hips twitch a little harder into Clint’s. “Where’s the lube?”

“Pillow,” Clint supplies simply, shifting a little. He doesn’t move much, though - he enjoys Bucky manhandling him too much to be actively helpful here, and he’s enjoying being lazy and pliant as Bucky nudges his thigh and then pushes two fingers into him easily.

_Too_ easily, apparently. Bucky’s voice sounds rough when he speaks again. “Did you- ?”

“Had some fun in the shower,” Clint mumbles. “You can just. Y’know.”

Bucky fucks his fingers in a little deeper and he moans, turns his face harder into the pillow. The cotton is soft against his face and Clint’s caught between that and the firm pressure of Bucky’s fingers. He’s not rough _exactly_ but he’s also far from gentle, and Clint’s more than happy to just lay there and take it. Bucky’s _good_ at this.

“Please,” is all he manages when Bucky fits in a third finger.

Bucky must take mercy on him then, because Clint only gets a few seconds to miss his fingers before Bucky’s cock is pushing into him in one smooth movement. Bucky hasn’t even taken the time to remove his pants - Clint can feel the denim against his legs, a rough scrape on his oversensitive thighs.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, the word pressed against Clint’s shoulder.

Clint agrees wholeheartedly. He might’ve been fucking around earlier under the spray but it still hadn’t prepared him for how _thick_ Bucky feels inside him. He’s too drowsy to keep up the stream of dirty talk that he normally narrates their fucking with, but there’s something nice about muffling incoherent noises into the pillow while Bucky thrusts into him.

He’s not even _trying_ to say anything. He doesn’t have words for it. He can hear Bucky’s hard breathing and he finds Bucky’s hair again, tugs to hear the breathing break off into a moan. Metal fingers end up on his dick again, slick with lube as Clint gets caught between rubbing up against them or pushing back onto Bucky’s dick.

“Doing okay?”

“’s nice,” Clint mutters into the pillow. “Don’t stop.”

The thing is, it _is_ nice. Clint spends half his life running from tour to tour, to venues and practice and interviews that no one really cares about, guitar modifications and picking up Lucky from Kate on his way home. He’s always got to be _on_ , mentally and physically. He doesn’t get to be like this often, soft and pliant as Bucky fucks into him easily.

He feels a little bad for making Bucky do all the work, but there are worse crimes. He’s pretty sure that Bucky doesn’t mind.

“God,” Bucky mutters, mouth pressed against Clint’s neck. It’s causing Bucky’s stubble to scrape against his skin deliciously and Clint is enjoying it immensely. “You feel so good, _Clint_ , fuck. So fucking good.”

The arousal builds up so slowly for him that it catches him by surprise when he shivers and comes, clenching hard enough that Bucky’s praise turns into pure swearing. Clint tugs at his hair again, hisses when Bucky’s teeth dig into his skin. Bucky hasn’t moved his hand and it’s still rubbing up against his oversensitive dick, wet and messy and Clint feels boneless.

“’m gonna,” Bucky says, somehow still quiet but kind of desperate, and Clint’s whole body is buzzing with how good it feels.

“Yeah,” he manages, “yeah, ‘cmon, do it.”

“Fuck, just - Clint, I just-”

Whatever he _just_ , Clint doesn’t find out, because then Bucky’s coming with a broken noise muffled against the leather of his vest. His fingers dig into Clint’s thigh a little rough and Clint makes a sound that’s more of an oversensitive squeak than anything else, but it’s the _good_ kind of too much and he’s more than happy to let Bucky ride it out.

Eventually Bucky slows down and stops, breathes out shaky against Clint’s hair. “Christ.”

“Mmh,,” Clint agrees, very coherently. He releases the handful of hair he’s got, awkwardly pats at the parts of Bucky’s head that he can reach. Bucky’s hand strokes down his thigh and yeah, it’s a little sticky when it touches his skin - he likes it, though.

They lay there for long enough that Clint’s just about asleep when Bucky makes the mattress shift, and he cracks open one eye in time to watch the jacket hit the floor by the bed. Taking clothes off is probably a good idea. He can’t be bothered with his vest, though, so he just lays there and listens to Bucky shuck off his pants and shirt and then curl up close again.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just presses a fleeting kiss to his neck. Clint feels the helpless smile bubble up in his chest before it overtakes his face.

“’m sorry I got sleepy,” he says anyway. “Old. Concerts wear me out."

“Still sexy,” Bucky reasons.

“ _I’m_ sexy,” Clint answers disbelievingly. “Your dick needs a trophy. Multiple awards. A Grammy.”

He’s dumb. Bucky just laughs quietly and traces a finger over one of his tattoos. Even half-asleep, Clint’s kind of impressed that he knows exactly where the outlines are without looking. And by _impressed_ he means his heart feels too big for his chest all of a sudden.

“Sometimes I think you just keep me around for my dick,” Bucky says dryly.

Clint rolls over at that so he can see the amused little smile on Bucky’s lips, grimaces a little as the movement makes him realize they’d forgotten about condoms. Aw, shit. That’s going to be a bitch to clean up. He’s tipping the housekeepers a _lot_ for this one. It's the Uber driver all over again. It feels like wherever they go, they inconvenience someone with their sex life. 

Right now he’s more interested in getting his mouth on Bucky’s. He’s intending for it to be soft and reassuring, but he can’t quite stop himself from biting at Bucky’s lip anyway for the delicious noise he gets back.

“Bucky,” Clint says finally, resting tattooed fingers on his stubbled cheek. “Baby. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of a slut. _Was_ a slut, I guess? Formely slutty. I’m only interested in you. Whatever. My point is that if I _just_ wanted to sleep with someone there’d be a hundred people volunteering to hit this. I’m hot as hell and my ass is nice. It’s not that.”

“Okay?” Bucky’s looking a little confused now.

“Point is,” he continues with a gentle pat, “I like you for _you_. The sex is very nice, but I also just like hanging out with you. How have you not figured that out yet? You're fascinating.”

“Okay,” Bucky answers, and he sounds a little more sure about it this time.

“Hey, I’m supposed to be the one with the crippling self-esteem problems,” Clint jokes. “You’re taking my identity away from me, Buck.”

“I don’t think anyone can take your identity,” Bucky replies, thumbing at the neon purple on his vest. The vest touching turns into skin touching again, fingering over the black and red lines on his chest, and Clint can’t blame him for being interested but his breath catches when the metal comes into contact with a nipple. “You’re pretty… unique.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” Clint says decisively, wriggles so they’re even closer and tangles their legs together. “Is Steve going to steal you from me tomorrow morning or can we sleep in?”

Bucky’s guilty expression answers his question without any words being needed. “Sorry.”

“I don’t know why he has to be so attached to you,” Clint grumbles, throwing an arm over Bucky’s waist. “Our first manager was like that. Always texting, always bothering us. Can’t imagine what it’d be like if a guy who was just my _friend_ was like that.”

Bucky’s expression gets even _worse_ at that and Clint hurries to cup his face gently in both hands, press a kiss to his lips and forehead, and then the tip of his nose for good measure. Bucky’s face scrunches up at that one and Clint figures he hasn’t made a huge mistake in judging this Steve guy. 

“It’s really nice that he loves you,” he offers. “Don’t mind me, I’m just needy.”

Clint tries to keep them away from the public eye if he can, most of the time - Bucky’s terrible with crowds and Clint hates that trapped look he gets on his face, so they only get whatever time they can squirrel away to somewhere more private. Clint doesn't get people swarming him the way Natasha does, but it’d be just his luck if the media decided to pay attention to him _now_.

The pestering doesn’t affect him. Sometimes he wants a little _more_ pestering from the media. He’s still very much used to crowds and chaos and people despite that. He’d probably end up assaulting reporters for bothering _Bucky_ though, and while that seems reasonable to _him_ , other people might not think so. The cops certainly wouldn't approve.

“I’ll still see you on Thursday,” Bucky promises.

“My hero,” Clint says, and he tries to make it sound dry and amused the way Natasha does it but it just comes out soft and kind of smitten.

_He’s_ kind of smitten.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he’s not sure he needs to.

“We’re on in thirty. Do you want to do the announcement?”

Clint snorts and the woman helping him with his makeup - Yelena, she’s supposed to be one of Nat’s - nearly stabs him in the eye. They both swear in unison, Yelena in perfect Russian, and then she decides her other hand is better used to grab his face and hold him still by force. He doesn’t like this part of being onstage.

Clint makes eye contact with Natasha in the mirror.

She’s wearing some kind of shimmery dust on her face that makes her look downright otherworldly and he glances back at his own reflection, feels faintly self-conscious in comparison. He doesn’t _want_ to look as scarily perfect as Natasha, not really, but he gets why people focus on her rather than him.

He just looks - tired, maybe. Not like Natasha does, anyway. Yelena’s already had to hide the bruise on his face from getting in the middle of a fight between two of the tour drummers. It had been a truly glorious shade of purple and he’d texted a picture to Bucky for sympathy. He’d _gotten_ it too, shockingly. Bucky is now his favourite. (Bucky's been his favourite for a while now, but no one needs to know that.)

Everyone else just called him an idiot. Clint wants to blow off the show and spend the rest of the day in Bucky’s lap. It’s a shame Steve had wanted help with setting up stage props or whatever it is that he does with his spare time.

“Nah,” he says when he remembers Natasha’s asked him a question. “Remember last time we tried that? They just stared at me in silence for ten minutes. It's better if you do it.”

“It’s your song,” Natasha says doubtfully, but she doesn’t argue with him. There’s no point. They both know he’s right.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies. Smiles in the mirror, a little fragile around the edges. “It’s not about what they think.”

The only person who really matters will be listening to him regardless of a stupid announcement. He’s got the lyrics scrawled on a diner napkin in his back pocket and no one else has to know he was writing them while he was watching Bucky walk back to the car with his friend leaning up against the hood. Steve’s more of a beefcake than he’d first imagined, but Clint's attention had been wholly on Bucky.

Clint had watched the sunlight glint off his hair, turning it gold at the edges and then he’d blinked and ended up with a new song.


End file.
